


exquisite and sanguine

by x (ordinary)



Series: 31 Days of Apex [2]
Category: Apex Legends (Video Games)
Genre: Blood Kink, Blood Loss, Blood and Injury, Consensual Violence, Established Relationship, Genital Piercing, Knives, M/M, Masturbation, Once again there is a sexy sexy scalpel, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Psychopathology & Sociopathy, Respawning, Sadism, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-05
Packaged: 2021-03-04 19:48:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25081885
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ordinary/pseuds/x
Summary: Octane bleeds out in a tub, blissed out and content.
Relationships: Caustic | Alexander Nox/Octane | Octavio Silva
Series: 31 Days of Apex [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1823794
Comments: 8
Kudos: 30





	exquisite and sanguine

**Author's Note:**

> back on my bullshit, all plans ruined by 31 days of apex (and im so behind now!!) this was, in theory, for day two: blood.
> 
> please really do mind the tags, as always!! heavy on the dying and injury. 
> 
> if you want to know how the games work in my fics, i've included a link at the end with my canon. tl;dr is you die and respawn and death is trivial.

Turns out it’s hard to bounce your leg while you’re sprawled in a tub, but Octane is nothing if not persistent. Metal grates against the ceramic in an ugly way, and he vaguely wonders how pissed Caustic is going to be about it later-- it’s a nice one, standalone and claw-footed. He mulls it over with a grin that turns both stupid and smug when he realizes he doesn’t give a shit.

He taps his fingers against the rim to an arrhythmic beat and contemplates yelling out at him for the third time in ten minutes. He’s already thrown a bottle of shampoo out the open door in protest, and honestly Caustic is lucky that he hasn’t thrown _more_.

Being told to “sit still” doesn’t do either of them any favors, and he’s not about to let Caustic forget it.

Although... when the good doctor appears in the doorway like a specter of the night, something tells him that Caustic won’t _need_ any help remembering it. Either way, Octane throws the horns at him anyway in an ecstatic greeting, tongue pressing against his busted tooth as he smiles from ear to ear. He doesn’t even pretend to look innocent.

Caustic’s returning gaze is nothing if not withering. He presses two fingers to the bridge of his nose as he steps into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him with a decisive click.

“Octavio," he chides, none too gently, "must you always make such a _racket?_ ”

An emphatic "yes" is out of Octane’s mouth before the last word is even out of Caustic's mouth. He gracelessly throws his arms over the sides of the tub, leaning back against the slope of it. With it comes another screech of steel grinding against ceramic. The grin painted across his face is smug. “ _Amigo_ , you’re just lucky I didn’t change my mind and come get you. Your bathroom is _so boring_.”

He's not really "allowed" in Caustic's quarters, per se, but it's not like he's above bribing a certain hacker with a promise of his silence in favor of a hacked keycard and something muttered at him in Korean that was _definitely_ an insult. Now, showing up unannounced is his favorite party trick, one that comes with a certain _understanding_ from both parties across the board. 

That understanding relegates him to the bathroom, because he can't be trusted anywhere else. Octane breaks about half of what he touches on average, and Caustic has seen that at work on his labs enough to not let the same to happen to something so personal as his _living quarters_. How scandalous! 

"Ah, yes. How fortunate I must be to the recipient of your nonsensical jeers." His tone is icy, but Octane sees right through him. Hard not to, when you know all his tells.

There's a familiar bag tucked beneath one arm, black and full of dangerous things. The sleeves of his black sweater are rolled up neatly above the elbow; black hides stains so well, after all. Something's off, but he can't quite put his finger on it, and not being able to figure it out pricks at the corner of his mind.

“Yo, I wouldn’t have to be _jeering_ if you weren’t so _ssslloooow_. What, did you bury my playthings in the back of your closet?” 

(And they _are_ his. Caustic doesn’t make time for just anyone, and not just anyone is ready and willing to walk into a blade with the intent of coming out worse for wear. Those stainless steel instruments belong to _him_ and _his_ skin. No one else’s.)

Surprisingly, Caustic laughs, a low rasp that reverberates through his respirator before it’s interrupted by a cough. "A surprisingly accurate presumption," he says, kneeling behind the tub, absent-mindedly running a hand through Octane's hair. It's long enough to grab at the base of his neck. He really needs a haircut, but letting it get shaggy has its perks. "Ms. Paquette was over to discuss a recent finding of hers. It would have been positively _unsightly_."

Octane tilts his head upwards, face contorted by sheer bafflement. "It's like, a bag, dude. You don't even bling it out. It's not like she woulda known."

It earns him a painful yank, and Caustic seems to be momentarily appeased by the yelp he gets. "Correct, I suppose. But I would have, and truly, I did not need any reminders of your last sojourn visible as I entertained a guest."

He blinks once before cackling, reaching up to pat the side of Caustic's face, just a shade away from condescending. "That's a whole lotta words to call yourself a prude, compadre. But don't worry, I won't tell." The hold on him stills, as if Caustic were debating just bashing his head against the bathtub a few times and calling it a day.

Instead, he deliberately lets go, which is ominous in its own way. Most anyone else would be a little scared, but Octane's both a little scared _and_ horny. It rules.

The bag unzips behind him, and then there's the gentle clink of tools against the rustle of fabric. The crinkling sound of a fresh scalpel being removed from its packaging has him hardwired to pant like a dog in anticipation of the damage done. It's more effective than the foil rip of a condom. 

Octane tilts his head up as Caustic lets his arms fall around his neck, large and warm against his bare chest. His hold on the scalpel is elegant; a practiced surgeon and his instrument of choice. Then it clicks-- his hands are bare. Not a glove in sight; not even the smell of the powdery latex he so strongly associates with the blade. Caustic quite literally does not often like to get his hands dirty. Octane's _pretty_ sure it's just because it helps him retain a vaguely clinical indifference, and that revs his engine as much as anything else they do, but sometimes...

Well, sometimes he's lucky enough that Caustic acquiesces to his own baser desires to make a bit of a mess.

It seems like tonight is one of those times, and fuck dude, that's what really makes his cock twitch to life against his thigh. It’s the first real reminder that Octane’s had that he’s nude-- because honestly, he’s as shameless as they come-- and and it’s impossible to miss the way Caustic’s eyes slide down his body in an almost resentful appreciation because they must be following his fingertips as they skate down his chest. Octane cackles as he lays his hand over Caustic's, dragging them over a pierced nipple and plenty of scars that predate their arrangement.

The respawn chamber means that Caustic gets as many experiments as he wants, but it also means that none of their games stick by default. Live, die, rinse, repeat-- every time born anew as a (mostly) fresh canvas. 

"Yo, you like what you see?" he asks with a lopsided grin, grabbing at his dick as it firms up in his hand. Idly, he rubs the lowest rung of his jacob's ladder. He wants to be wanted-- who doesn't-- and that means gathering up all of Caustic's dangerous attentions to keep for his very own.

Caustic snorts. "Your talking is as incessant as ever." The cool, sweet kiss of the scalpel glides across his skin; navel to pectoral, sternum to clavicle, neck to jaw before it finishes at his temple, mere inches away from his eye. It shines in his peripheral. The pace Caustic keeps is deliberate, slow. It's as close to teasing as they get. One huge hand comes up to splay across Octane's throat for a painful, choke inducing squeeze, as if it were a comforting and reassuring touch. In a way, it is. Let the games begin, it says, checkered flags waving and pedal to the fucking metal to drive towards oblivion. 

Octane squirms, the metal of his legs grinding against each other as Caustic leans in to _breathe_ him in. His beard tickles against Octane's skin; the silicone of his mask is not yet skin warm. It's not like he smells like anything _interesting._ Like Caustic's unscented soap and shampoo like some sort of prison bullshit, cleaned up despite his protests. He's going to bathe everything in here with a fine red mist _anyway,_ so what's the point?

Still, there's worse things to do than get naked in Caustic's bathroom, and it's not like he didn't spend his time after that full of malicious compliance "behaving" after that.

"Yeah," he breathes, voice a little raspy from the brutal, albeit momentary, crushing of his windpipe, "so you gonna do anything about it or--"

Caustic slices him open from belly to sternum in a clean, swift cut. It's not too deep, just enough to cut into the first few layers of his epidermis. It’s cold like ice before the blood wells up, and Octane hisses and jerks. “It would be rude to ignore such a proposition,” he reasons, tracing the cut with his thumb and staining it red, red, red. He digs into it the edge of it with a nail just to hear Octane howl _loud_ like some sort of animal, swearing sharply in incomprehensible Spanish. His chest is warm and huge against Octane’s head, an unyielding wall to push up against, trying to get away from the pain without getting away from the source of it.

The blood trickles down his belly in sluggish rivulets, and Octane watches them track the cut of his hip and _just_ miss his cock. It’s not that pain gets him _going_ , not really, but the evidence of it makes his rabbit heart come to life. It is _proof_. 

“Such a _powerful_ reaction from so little action.” Caustic’s tone is _taunting_ and _mean._ “You’ve taken so much more, I should hardly think this is worthy of it.”

Octane’s eyes clench shut, because he’s not _wrong_.

“It’s just,” he grunts, kicking one of his prosthetic legs again without meaning to, trying to burn out some of that shock of adrenaline, “just-- a warm up. _” Mierda._ The first cut is always the deepest, or some shit. Isn’t that what they say? “So don’t let a little squirming stop you, _doc_.”

Caustic's right, after all: they _both_ know that he can take it and so much more. He's drowned in his own blood from nox gas, a little bit of blood _outside_ his body isn't going to stop his wanton and ill-advised desire. The tsk under Caustic's breath is just a huff through the mask. “You insult me, Octavio, but don't mistake my actions as something borne from ire.” This time, the drag of the blade is slow-- a deliberate carve from the outside of Octane's shoulder down to his sternum as he presses down firm against Octane's belly to keep his jerking _mostly_ under control. The line is not perfectly smooth, but it's serviceable enough. “You’ve always insisted you need no restraints and yet...” 

A bead of sweat trickles down Octane’s brow as he bites down _hard_ on the inside of his cheek to contain an ungodly scream. He's always felt a little bad for the people who live on the either side of Caustic's quarters, but only a little. “Fuck you,” he spits, clinging to Caustic’s hand with one of his own, nails digging in like spikes even as the other starting up a stuttering pace as starts to work his cock. The friction of his dry palm drags against it, and the promise of blood to lubricate his grip pulls a moan out of him like a fish violently pulled to the surface of the water by a cruel hook.

“Ah, there it is,” Caustic croons, mirroring the cut on Octane’s other collarbone. “The mellifluous sounds of suffering.” He digs into those cuts too, this time with a happy little hum, as if he had just sampled a particularly delightful snack. 

Octane’s laugh is a little hysterical as he twists through it, throwing his head back against Caustic’s chest with feral snarls. With his fingers still stuck as claws, he shakily drags them through the sticky red of his own blood, lubricating it as Caustic watches. His cock visibly twitches when the warmth of it comes in contact with it, and the sound that comes out of him is _broken_. There's so much more, now, warm against his chest, dripping down to drop in little pitter patters against the clean white porcelain of the bathtub. He can't breathe save for tiny, shallow things, his senses on fucking fire. He shakes as he pulls himself off, reddened finger rubbing against the slit of his cock, the bead of precum mixing with it to swirl them together. A melding of worlds that should not mix.

Pain is all he knows and pain is what he is, quite literally carved into his fucking skin. He whimpers with a roll of his hips, arousal racing up his spine but it's not _enough_. Not _yet_. 

“Quit playing with me, _cabrón_ ,” he warns, abruptly turning his head to bite at the meat of Caustic’s forearm with the speed of a viper, sinking his teeth in hard enough to bruise. Octane wants _more_ , and if he has to force Caustic’s hand, then so be it. He is hungry and he is easy and he is slavering, drooling around his sunken teeth against skin.

Caustic, to his credit, does not flinch, only offering a sharp exhale against Octane's neck. Hesimply raises the scalpel and plunges it into Octane’s abdomen until the inch long blade is in embedded in his guts. “So impatient,” Caustic hisses, “and how eager you are for a lethal blow.” It’s such a horrible sensation, to feel something dragging _inside_ of him, cutting through meat. It's a wet, squelching sound that only gets worse as Octane spasms from head to toe, the scream muffled against the bruised skin pressed up against his mouth. 

Tears pool at the corners of his eyes, finally falling as he flings his head to the side and sobs, unable to continue jerking himself off as the torturous pain overtakes his finer motor senses. His red-stained hands fly out and scramble to grip the rim of the tub with a white-knuckled hold, kicking hard enough that Octane distantly wonders if it might finally shatter. Half the time the prostheses come off and half the time they don’t, and when they stay on Octane knows it's because Caustic wants to see him _really_ fight. It’s a silent admission of desire, one that Octane drinks up and revels in. He's not one to fall into line without making Caustic work for it-- and if he wanted that, he'd be looking somewhere else. He wants to die-- so, so desperately wants to die-- but before that Octane better get a fucking _ride_ , and that's what he's going to make sure he gets.

“You know what I want,” he grits out even as his voice shatters into another howl when Caustic twists the scalpel deeper into his abdomen. His nerves are a flame racing along streaks of gasoline, and his pulse roars in his ears. It edges Octane further and further towards euphoria, towards the cliff leading to an abyss that yawns so, so deep. He flings himself towards it at breakneck speed, because it's what he's good at. What he's _great_ at. "You're not-- you're not going to get the precious _results_ you want without hitting--" Octane sobs again, hard enough that his ribs hurt, "without hitting an _artery_. C'mon, asshole, I _know_ you."

Caustic lazily dips two fingers into the wound just to elicit another scream, each one more hoarse than the last. It's a neat little coin slot of agony; a fucked up tab a into slot b. Octane can't tear his eyes away from the blood that burbles from it. His voice warbles like a theremin, eagerly wondering which one he’s going to pick _this_ time. They’ve done the carotid and femoral recently, so he’s got no clue. He's not the anatomy expert.

So he turns his face up at Caustic’s like a flower chasing the sun only to catch sight of a red flush bloom on his cheeks and eyes swallowed up entirely by black, the brown of his irises nothing more than thin rings. Octane tracks the trajectory of his gaze until it finally lands on his upper arm, the right side.

“You truly _are_ a spoiled child, with even a modicum of patience." He pulls his fingers free, pressing down around the gouge to see the blood well out, painting all of Octane's groin with it. "But, you are correct. I _do_ intend to test a new location, and it is one that will rapidly bring about your demise. I hardly have the time for a lengthy evening, given your uninvited appearance.”

“Blah, b-blah, blah, dude.” Octane forces himself to keep his eyes open, because he wants-- no, _needs_ \-- to see the damage done. He is wide eyed and waiting. He is wide eyed and frozen in time, trapped in amber, waiting for the pin to finally drop. The promise of impending death makes his cock twitch against his belly, the strain of the clench of his abdomen causing yet another pulse of warm, sticky red to pour from his injury. " _Get on with it already_. _"_ His voice is labored, each word uttered slow through gritted teeth. The flakes of crimson drying on his palms crack as his hands stretch before grabbing on to the rim of the tub again. 

Really, he shouldn't be rewarded for such bad behavior, but frankly that's how Octane knows that the lady doth protest too much. Caustic wants this as much as Octane does, even though he's fully clothed. Next time, he'll sprawl across a counter or a floor and get the railing of his life-- but today's all about him. His smile is wide, and the laugh that emerges is hysterical.

Caustic does not rise from the tile floor, but does rearrange himself so that he is perpendicular to the bathtub; it's easier to jerk him off while slicing and dicing. Two birds, one stone. Two acts, one death.

He looms over the edge and briskly feels around an inch or two above the crease of Octane’s elbow. The touch is clinical. "The brachial artery," he explains, all pretense of being disconnected from such an intimate act, voice husky, "is embedded rather deep. Should I sever it, you will have less than half a minute before you fall unconscious. You will die within two." 

The blade lingers against his skin, shaking only because Octane can't stop shuddering, the blood loss not yet significant enough to do anything but make him clammy and keep his heart pulsing faster than a hummingbird's beating wings. 

Octane turns his still-teary eyes to Caustic, whose expression is ravenous through the mask. He wants to say something-- anything-- maybe mock him for trying to keep it clean in here despite the incoming veritable _fountain_ of blood, to beg for more, to do anything. But his tongue is thick in his mouth as he pants like a dog.

With his blissfully bare hand, Caustic's lazily strokes Octane's still-present arousal, still tacky with half-dried blood. The sound it makes is obscene. “I do wonder if you can find completion before then.” 

He does not ask if Octane is ready before digging the blade of the scalpel in beneath skin and muscle down _deep_ , the pain eternal and exquisite as it finally finds its mark. The result is _explosive_ as red arcs in a gushing stream. Octane's legs jerk on their own, the sound of it loud enough that the clatter of the scalpel falling to the ground is drowned out. Caustic applies pressure against the wound without the intention to stop it, merely _redirect it_.

He grunts as his pace grows ruthless, working his hand over the head with an insistent, milking twist. The metal of his piercings rub against his palm. Octane is non-verbal: robbed from intelligent words and thoughts alike, the world closing in on him like a compactor looming closer. The drain of the tub is stoppered; and slippery crimson starts to pool at the bottom, frothy as Octane struggles inside it.

This is what Octane came for. This is what makes it all worth Caustic's feign disaffected nature. He is not a limp rabbit in the maw of a wolf; he is another who bares his neck and dares it to take what it so dearly desires. The gravitational pull they share is inextricable from the _commitment_ of a _threat_ that will have follow through. Drowsiness swoops in from above, and fuck, this time he very well might not be able to come. Maybe later he'll care, but right now, there is nothing but the rush of his demise.

"Your veins will collapse soon," Caustic promises, pressing a would-be kiss to Octane's temple, "your blood pressure is dropping too swiftly to maintain your arousal." It doesn't slow the pace of his hand, even as Octane softens in his grip. If anything, it just makes him laugh again. The flood of carmine bursting from his brachial artery is slowing, and darkness seeps in around the corners, the final curtain call before the thunderous applause from an audience of one-- and when he rouses from a fresh respawn, the last thing he'll remember is this:

"Test my patience again. I invite it."

**Author's Note:**

> i am way too into unfulfilled orgasms hope u can forgive me
> 
> \--
> 
> [The Apex Games Rule Book](https://dangerjunkie.tumblr.com/post/186314846212/apex-legends-rule-book) \- How respawning works, how bodies and minds are stored through repeated lives, how death boxes work, etc


End file.
